


Disjointed

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Series: Whose Life Is It Anyways [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Meet-Cute, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25142302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: Russ meets ahandsomestranger while reading in a coffee shop and gets a weirder interaction than he’d bargained for.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Russell “Russ” Wiedall | Cody Fifer/Jackson Williams
Series: Whose Life Is It Anyways [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647334
Kudos: 6





	Disjointed

“‘s this seat taken?”

Russell glances up from his book to find another young man in front of him, gesturing at the seat to his left. A subtle glance around tells him why: everywhere else is, apparently, full. The coffee shop that had been nearly dead an hour ago when Russ had entered is bustling now, leaving no seat empty except for the ones at the table he’d claimed for himself. 

After a beat, where he unintentionally finds himself sizing the stranger up, Russ jerks his head up and down in some semblance of a nod. “Go ahead.”

The stranger gives him a lopsided smile, like the instructions for the expression itself gets stuck halfway between his brain and his mouth. It’s a face that Russ finds himself reciprocating in kind; real smiles don’t come naturally to him, not anymore. 

“Thanks,” the stranger says. He all but falls into the chair, the movement somehow graceful in its absolute gracelessness. He immediately looks towards the counter where the barista is calling names out, so Russ doesn’t feel too badly about the second look he gives him. 

A sweat-stained white tank top, oil-stained denim jeans, and hair swept untidily into a low bun at the back of his head all point to some kind of career in automotive repair. That, or this stranger is homeless, but he seems too well-kept for that at a moment’s glance. Plus, he doesn’t  _ smell  _ like he’s homeless; he’s close enough for Russ to have gotten a whiff of what was likely a cheap brand of spray-on deodorant when he’d taken his seat. 

“Can I help you, man?” the stranger says, and Russ realises abruptly that he’s staring. 

So much for taking a moment’s glance. “I— like your shirt,” Russ says. He resists the urge to cringe visibly at himself, but only barely. The stranger’s shirt is  _ white  _ and  _ sweat-stained.  _

The stranger, to his credit, doesn’t look like this is a particularly strange thing for someone to say to him. Instead of looking fazed, he only looks a little surprised, and the brief note of shock in his eyes fades easily into another one of those weird half-smiles. “Thanks. Sorry if I stink,” he adds, bizarrely, like this exchange isn’t odd enough already. “I’ve been working on my bike all morning. Figured it was time for a coffee break.”

A part of Russ —a large part, the part the regrets even getting up this morning to get out of the house— wants to let the conversation die out there. The stranger will get his coffee and either stick around to drink it or leave, and either way, nothing will depend on Russ’ inability to hold a decent conversation with other people. But there’s also a part of him that wants to continue, because this is someone that doesn’t know him or his… history, that isn’t looking the other way or immediately turning their nose up at him for something he didn’t want to think about. 

Somehow, the latter part manages to win the fight, as close as it comes. “Your bike? As in…?”

The smile the stranger gives him this time feels more genuine than the previous two. “Sorry, yeah. My motorcycle.” He says it in a  _ duh  _ tone, although it seems less directed at Russ and more at himself, like he’s kicking himself for not explaining it better. “You got a car?”

Feeling even more out of his depth than he normally does, Russ blinks at the stranger for a second before slowly answering, “Ye-e-e-s?”

The barista calls out  _ Jackson  _ and the stranger shoots out of his seat. He holds up one finger to Russ. “Hang on.”

The stranger —Jackson, presumably— hurries up to the counter and says something to the barista that Russ can’t pick out over the hustle and bustle of the shop. The barista blushes and pushes Jackson’s drink to the front of the counter. 

“Sorry,” Jackson says as soon as he sits down again. “Had to—“ He doesn’t finish his statement verbally, choosing instead to jerk his thumb towards the counter. “I’m a mechanic,” he adds, and Russ wonders if this conversation is as disjointed as it feels or if it’s just his own difficulty with connecting to people getting in the way. “I operate out of my own garage, but I’m hella good at what I do.”

_ Hella?  _

“If you ever need a quick fix or anything, I’m always around.” Russ is pretty sure he imagines the wink that Jackson throws his way, especially since Jackson looks down at the pen lying on the table between them and points to it in the next second. “Do you mind?”

Helplessly, Russ shrugs. “It was there when I got here.”

Jackson nods and grabs the pen, scribbling something on one of the napkins that had also been sitting on the table when he’d initially taken the table over. “Here. Sorry it’s—“ He shakes his head like a dog clearing water from its ears. “Here.”

When Jackson pushes the napkin across the table, Russ looks down to find a phone number, a name, and an address scrawled in barely-legible handwriting. 

“Thanks—“ Russ begins to say. He’s utterly bewildered at this point; this is the strangest interaction he’s had with anyone in as long as he can remember, and he’s not sure at this point if he should be taking it in stride or not. 

Jackson, who has pulled out his phone in the few moments since writing his information on the napkin, swears loudly, interrupting whatever else Russ was going to say to try and salvage their conversation. “I gotta run, man. Give me a call if you need any work done!” 

And before Russ can even say goodbye, Jackson is out of his seat and out the door, narrowly avoiding crashing into a middle-aged man with a beer gut in the process. Russ makes confused eye contact with him and looks away quickly, only to make accidental eye contact with the barista instead. She smiles ruefully at him before calling out a string of names, and Russ can only assume that the universe has something against him as he grabs at the napkin Jackson had written on and goes back to the passage he’d been reading before Jackson had appeared. After all, he  _ does _ need a bookmark. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments are love! Come scream at me on tumblr @deathishauntedbyhumans


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